Bound by the Mark of Lies (BL)-Chapter 292 - 287: So what?

Max sat behind the wheel longer than he needed to.

The engine was still running, low and steady, but he made no move to exit. The wrought-iron gates of George Claymore’s estate stood open before him, the family crest still etched into the stone with the same arrogance as always. Technically, it was his now. Legally, politically, and by every damned noble decree in existence, this entire mansion belonged to Maximilian Claymore.

It didn’t feel like it.

The air inside the car was too quiet, save for the occasional tap of rain against the windshield. His gloved fingers tightened on the steering wheel as he replayed the voice again—the one from the report, clipped and cold and far too familiar.

Callahan’s voice.

"He was born for this. Olivier placed the contract, but the twin threads were always the goal, Gabriel for the rebirth. Max, for the containment."

Containment. Like he was a vessel.

He exhaled slowly, letting his head fall back against the headrest. Gabriel hadn’t heard it yet, not all of it. Damian had heard enough, and Max had read the report three times, the words sinking in deeper each time. Gabriel had been marked, altered, and manipulated, his entire life rerouted for a purpose he never asked for.

But Max had been spared nothing. They didn’t want to just control Gabriel. They wanted to keep Max. Store him like a relic. Twist the bloodline until there was nothing left but a hollowed-out weapon wearing a smile that matched Olivier’s.

Damian was powerful enough to burn Olivier out. Enough to reroute ether, collapse wards, drag death back by the throat and demand a bargain.

Max wasn’t.

He pushed the door open at last and stepped into the rain, letting it soak into his coat as he approached the front entrance. No guards. No servants. The place had been cleared days ago—George’s personal staff reassigned or dismissed by palace order. And still, walking up those marble steps felt like entering a mausoleum. His own reflection stared back at him from the polished glass of the door.

He didn’t knock. It was his house now, wasn’t it?

The scent inside hadn’t changed. Dust. Oil paint. Books no one reads anymore. That ridiculous cologne George always wore, the one Max used to mistake for power before he understood it was just camouflage.

The hallway lights flickered on automatically. Shadows stretched along the velvet runners like echoes.

He didn’t come here for memories. He came for answers.

If they used Gabriel as a key, Max was supposed to be the lock. That meant there was something here—a tether, a trigger, maybe even another contract buried in the archives George hoarded so obsessively.

Max wasn’t just the heir anymore. He was the next target.

And he’d be damned if he let himself be caged without a fight.

—

The silence of the hallway pressed in.

Max didn’t go to the main study. Not yet. He turned left instead, down the narrower corridor that led to George’s private wing. No guards had ever been allowed here—not even Max, not really. And now he walked through it like a ghost reclaiming something that was never his.

He stopped in front of the carved door with the hawk insignia. The one George kept locked at all hours unless summoned.

He let one person inside. Callahan. And for what Max had once dared to believe was love—a bond between equals, between two alphas discarded by the crown—there had been nothing more than strategy. Calculated meetings. Shared ambitions. A union of goals, not hearts. George and Callahan never loved each other.

They only loved control.

Max huffed bitterly at the mere thought of taking Damian’s place.

Damian, who had never once flinched from the weight of the Empire. Who had rebuilt it with blood and bone, not favors? Who had given Max more chances than he deserved—because he cared. Because, even through all the chaos and missteps, he still called Max brother.

And George—George had repaid that grace with silence. With secrets. With slow betrayal, neat and bloodless.

Max didn’t knock. He turned the handle. Unlocked.

The scent hit first—old parchment, aged brandy, faint traces of aftershave and ether. The room hadn’t changed, but Max had. He walked in like a stranger returning to a grave, not a home.

George was seated at his desk, coat discarded, glasses perched low on his nose as he scanned a page.

"You’re home," George said, without lifting his gaze.

Max closed the door behind him with a quiet click. "Am I?"

George looked up at that. Eyes narrowed, tone cool. "You sound like Damian."

"No," Max said, stepping forward. "If I did, you’d already be dead."

George folded his hands on the desk instead, as if preparing for negotiation.

"I expected more grace from you," he said.

"Grace?" Max laughed once—low, humorless. "You expected grace after feeding Gabriel to the wolves? After planting lies and illusions just to fracture the Empire from within? Don’t dress it up, George. You betrayed him. You betrayed me."

"I protected this House."

"You protected your seat at the table." Max’s voice hardened. "You used Callahan’s schemes to do it. Don’t pretend this was loyalty."

George didn’t deny it.

"You always said love was a weakness," Max continued. "And you were right. Because I loved you like family, and you saw that as permission."

"You were meant to rule, Maximilian. With or without him."

Max’s breath caught—because he had heard that before. From Callahan. From others. From ghosts. Always instead of Damian. Never beside him.

"I failed the ceremony every single time," Max said quietly, the words pulled from somewhere deep and scarred. "Damian was the chosen one. The ether chose him, not me. And you all knew it. You just hoped I’d never figure it out."

George’s mouth tightened. "That doesn’t mean you weren’t meant to lead."

Max stepped closer, and this time, the calm in his voice was colder than anything George had ever taught him.

"It means I was never meant to survive your plans unless they served you. You wanted the throne without ever sitting on it. You wanted me as the weapon and Callahan as the leash. All while pretending you were doing it for the good of the Empire."

George didn’t deny it. That was the worst part. He didn’t even flinch.

"You always said love was a weakness," Max continued. "And maybe it was. Because I loved you, George. I trusted you. I would’ve followed you off a cliff if you’d asked." He took a breath that burned on the way out. "And you sold me for a crown I never wanted."

George’s tone sharpened, defensive now. "I raised you when no one else would. I made you into something more than a bastard with a noble name."

Max shrugged, his green eyes shining in the low light. Calm, cold, dangerous in a way George had never taught him to be. ƒrēenovelkiss.com

"So what?"